Rachel V.

The Plowmen For His Son

Plowing through the dirt,
Back breaking labor for only one,
The sweat drips down his chin,
And will evaporate in the sun,

Or maybe it will puddle,
Just if he sweats enough,
And he won’t have to water,
His work will be enough.

Pulling that much harder,
A grimace on his face,
He knows his plants must flower,
For his son is only eight.

His job is far from done,
But his muscles ache with pain,
The field is halfway gone,
As he uses God’s name in vain.

He pulls the plow some more,
Thinking ‘bout nothing but the finish,
And how he will sit at home,
With his son and soon replenish .


Copyright 2002-2007 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.